


Out of the Rabbit Hole

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul is visited by a fictional character. What, anything was possible in the 60's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Rabbit Hole

“It's because you always have to keep some semblance of control, you can just never allow yourself to let go completely.”

The stranger was right, Paul had to admit. He had been piercingly jealous of John that summer, of the way he seemed to naturally blend into the drug-filled psychedelia. Later in his life, Paul would muse that while he himself only ever played at the 60's, John _was_ the 60's.

“I can sympathize with your position, of course. My own mind is also impossible to switch off.”

It hadn't seemed strange before, but now Paul found himself wondering why the stranger was sitting so close to him that their knees touched. The stranger had a pale face with angular, hollowed features. His hair was as dark as Paul's, but it was brushed back and oiled in a curiously old-fashioned manner.

“Shall we have a smoke?” The stranger drew out a pipe from inside his unbuttoned pea jacket and set to lighting it while puffing on it, his cheeks drawing even tauter over his bones. Apparently, Paul was expected to get his own smoking material and so he reached for a pack of cigarettes.

Sitting there cross-legged on his imported, scratchy carpet with this strange, yet familiar person, who now seemed to have departed into a distant world hidden in the clouds of tobacco smoke, Paul was overwhelmed by deja-vu.

“Excuse me,” he addressed the stranger, “but I don't remember inviting you in.”

“... Aah, yes, what?”

Paul repeated his statement.

“Oh, I never came in. This is where I usually live.” He tapped a book lying open in Paul's lap with a thin long finger.

“Alright, then.” The explanation seemed quite satisfactory to Paul.

“I can show you how to abandon yourself without any mind-altering substances,” the stranger offered. “Unless you have any cocaine?”

Paul realized he was nodding and then shaking his head.

The stranger did not appear to have any trouble understanding the message.

He put his pipe away and then scooted closer to Paul – and then he kissed him. Invisible hints of a stubble brushed against Paul's slightly less well-shaved face. Then Paul felt the stranger's fingers beneath his loose shirt, tracing his stomach and pulling on the waistband of his trousers.

“Jane - could - come in - at any – ah – moment,” Paul protested weekly. He made a token effort to push the stranger away, but then sighed in resignation and leaned back on his elbows, giving the stranger free reign.

Meanwhile, the stranger threw away the book still blocking Paul's lap, unbuttoned Paul's trousers and slid down the zipper.

“Clever thing,” he commented and Paul racked his brain trying to guess to what in the world the stranger could be referring.

But then the stranger pulled out Paul's cock and – “Oooh, God!” - took its head in his mouth. He licked the slit and then all around it and then he sucked and then he hummed (Paul thought, _the vibrations feel so good, I have to remember that for if I ever give – wait what am I thinking?_ ) and then he all but swallowed Paul's cock and then pulled back again (Paul couldn't help but start thrusting upward a bit, hungry for the heat of that mouth) and then the stranger intensified his caressing of Paul's balls, squeezing and massaging them.

His body and mind exhausted from a full night of songwriting, it did not take Paul very long.

The stranger sucked and licked him clean.

“See? It was simplicity itself,” he said and disappeared.

Paul fell back on his back. The carpet scratched his exposed lower back and arse.

“No more LSD,” Paul thought.

 


End file.
